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Mainly because I hate stumbling over these words I have jumbled like shards of mosaics of glass behind my lips, and when I speak, it all spills out in a vague stream, leaving curds that make most people look at me in awkward clearings. Most ask me to repeat myself after I conjoin a word incestuously or ask me to wipe the drops off my chin. It's not so much the blunders in speech, but the misinterpretations of meaning really get to me. How the heck could I convey this accurately when speaking across a table during lunch? Words, written words, are permanent, and thus try and allow me to avoid the idea of death that I've been fearing. But I'm not that melancholic: it's more of my want to be heard or just to be recognized. I've got this Munchausen's syndrome, and I seek attention more than a toddler does: it's my way of tapping on the glass of society. It's a triumph for me to get out of bed in the morning, every morning, and often times my mind is this blanket that is truly stifling, but then again, I never want to take it off, knowing how cold everything else is. It's these faint paroxysms of knowledge that get to me, but you all know my timidity; to laugh is a spot in the limelight I'm willing to dart away from, I just want to be heard but not really seen, and yet at the same time I have all these stirrings within me that are struggling for breath.
I write because I really don't know how to scream.

Every time I speak I have this dentated feeling, as if each word spoken to me grew teeth that gnawed on the threads of my clothing; I don't know what I mean, that's what causes me to trace oblique circles into the air, a lazy infinity, and I knew it that one day it was raining and the branches grew shadows that formed with calligraphic intensity on my windowpane. This is all pretentious garbage, I'm sure, but I'm so caught up in this feeling of not-knowing that I can only speak in terms of which I have no grasp. I blindly grope and lunge: my life is a series of senseless lunges, where my conscience is a marionette: I would tell you I love you, but then with a lash I am pulled back even further than I started. Why do I do it to myself? The brain is a self-contradictory thing: it allows you to think for yourself before you realize you should censor your thoughts. I'm telling you all this because it's nothing. I can relate to you the deepest secrets, illicit habits, past regrets: I can tell you the days I wanted to grind you into the floor, days when I wanted to laugh, leaning back in your arms, lip-synching songs, the only sound being my lips tearing apart and sewing back together. All of it being blackmail of course, in your mind; but I am the urgent man and you are the beggar, and I will give this to you, let you hold it and keep it warm, let you believe it to give birth to someone animate, because it is nothing to me.





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